


Already Confessed

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e19 The Werther Project, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Purgatory, they have been pining for like a really unreasonable length of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah.” Dean leans closer, and the table is abruptly narrow. Dean’s eyes are dark, his eyelashes fanned against the freckled skin of his face. “Look, I wouldn’t normally bring this up, but do you…?”</p><p>Oh, Castiel remembers. How Dean’s fingers had laced their way through his, the calluses scraping against the softer skin of Castiel’s palms and knuckles. How Castiel’s heart had thumped so hard in his chest that he had worried he was losing control of the vessel. How Dean’s gaze had caught against Castiel’s mouth, how Dean’s tongue had wet his lips, and how quickly they had parted when they heard Benny rustling his way back through the underbrush. (A 10.19 coda.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Already Confessed

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me sliding this 10.19 coda in under the wire!!! The title is from Patty Griffin's "Forgiveness," which is the song that I always listen to when I want to wallow in D/C Purgatory emotions.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr over [here](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com). ♥

Dean, Castiel is coming to realize, is drunk.

Well, tipsy at the least. The reacquisition of his grace has heightened Castiel’s ability to monitor these things. He can feel the slow thrum of contentment as the alcohol spreads into Dean’s bloodstream and loosens his limbs and inhibitions.

“You want another?” Dean waggles his half-empty beer bottle in Castiel’s direction. His motions are expansive, his face slightly pinker than usual.

“No,” he says, and then he adds, fondness twisting in his chest and ruffling through his grace, “thank you.”

Dean grins at him, his teeth flashing white. The kitchen’s well-lit, but Dean is brighter—Castiel drinks in the awareness of his soul. It could be difficult to make out, fighting hard against the demonic influence of the Mark of Cain, but to Castiel, it is unmistakable. He would know Dean in pitch darkness, in a million years, during any apocalypse the universe might concoct for them.

“Lightweight,” Dean says. The space between them—a table—feels too large. It’s irrational, Castiel knows, but he rarely feels rational around Dean Winchester anymore.

“On the contrary.” Castiel tips one of his empty bottles toward Dean. “Not anymore.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s teeth catch at the plump curve of his bottom lip. “Welcome back, Optimus Prime.”

Castiel catches the reference now, but he chooses to ignore it. “You’re okay? Sam alluded to…” He trails off delicately. That’s a human thing, deliberate silence.

Dean doesn’t answer. A long moment, Dean’s throat working to swallow the second half of that beer.

Just as Castiel wonders if he should leave, Dean’s voice cuts in, rough-hewn and beautiful as ever. “I saw Purgatory.”

Castiel’s world zeroes in on Dean. “What?”

Dean’s smile turns lopsided. “In my head. The box—the thing me ’n Sam were hunting. But man, it felt so real.”

If he lives another millennium, Castiel won’t forget that place. How Dean’s eyes had glinted; how Benny had eyed the two of them with understanding in his genial features; how he had listened to the slow rhythm of Dean’s breath every night and felt a low burn of protectiveness so intent it bordered on madness.

“It was,” Castiel says with care, “memorable. To say the least.”

Dean’s laugh ignites a fresh spark of fondness. The feeling tumbles too easily through the veins of Castiel’s body, a body that’s now his whether he likes it or not. He thinks he does, which scares him nearly more than the alternative.

“Yeah.” Dean leans closer, and the table is abruptly narrow. Dean’s eyes are dark, his eyelashes fanned against the freckled skin of his face. “Look, I wouldn’t normally bring this up, but do you…?”

Oh, Castiel remembers. How Dean’s fingers had laced their way through his, the calluses scraping against the softer skin of Castiel’s palms and knuckles. How Castiel’s heart had thumped so hard in his chest that he had worried he was losing control of the vessel. How Dean’s gaze had caught against Castiel’s mouth, how Dean’s tongue had wet his lips, and how quickly they had parted when they heard Benny rustling his way back through the underbrush.

It might be easier to forget if it hadn’t kept happening. In moments of silence, of the closest thing to peace Purgatory could offer them.

“Yeah,” Castiel says. He curls his fingers around the edge of the table for something to hold. The edge digs sharply into the crease of his palm, and it helps some. Wanting hurts—he’s learned that much. “Yeah, I do.”

Dean licks his lips again. His mouth shines in the light. Castiel listens to Dean’s heart speeding up, the glutamate in his cells slowed by the alcohol in his system.

“Would you, uh.” Dean clears his throat. He ducks his head. When he looks back up, the hesitant hope tugging at the corners of his mouth is nearly worse than the dejected expression he’d worn ordering Castiel out of the bunker.

It turns out that Castiel has very little control over himself. He stands, lunges across the table, and stops only when his forehead is pressed to Dean’s and he can feel the warm breath coming in huffs from Dean’s shocked-open mouth.

“Hi.” Dean grins. “I just wanna finish what we started, Cas.”

Castiel closes his eyes. Dean’s breath smells like beer, yeasty and acrid and inviting nonetheless. His words are loose, rounded, and he’s drunk. Drunk enough, at any rate.

“Dean.” He shifts, feels the tip of his nose brush Dean’s. “Not like this.”

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, and leans back in. They are so _close_. “Not like what? If you don’t want me, you just gotta say the word.”

Castiel comes perilously close to laughter. “Never. As if I could. Of course I want you.”

Dean tenses, as if he’s surprised. How could he be? Didn’t he know? “Then why—what’s—is it the Mark? You don’t want damaged goods?”

It would be so easy. Dean is right there, frightened and willing and open to him, but Castiel can’t. The only possibility more terrifying than that of kissing Dean is that of Dean changing his mind once it’s happened.

He touches the side of Dean’s face. Stubble pricks at the pads of his fingers. “You’re damaged by virtue of how hard you fight. I just meant… not while you’re impaired.”

“Drunk, you mean.” Dean scoffs, dropping heavily back into his seat. “You prude.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. Astonishingly, Dean’s cheeks redden further. “On the contrary,” Castiel says. “I’d like to take you to bed. Literally,” he adds before Dean can crack a joke or make another pass at him.

As he escorts Dean down the hallway, Dean leans against him. Big and solid, long limbs and broad shoulders and his cheek pillowed on Castiel’s chest. He doesn’t fight or protest, just bats Castiel’s hands away gently so he can pull off his jeans and crawl under the covers of his well-loved bed.

“So you remember,” Dean says into the darkness before Castiel can make it out the door. “We said it was ’cause of all the monsters, right?”

Right. Castiel needed to stay near. Needed to shield Dean with everything, including his body. “Purgatory was dangerous.” _Captain Obvious_ , drawls his inner Dean monologue.

“ _I’m_ dangerous.” He catches the shadowed motion of Dean tipping his chin up, drawing his knees toward his chest. “I could hurt myself.”

Dean’s tone is playful, but the words drop into Castiel’s gut like anchors to the bottom of the sea. “You want—”

“Cas, c’mon. Don’t make me ask.”

And Castiel can give him that—that kindness, of not having to say words that might haunt and humiliate him. He sheds his coat, then his jacket and tie and slacks, and makes a space for himself in the bed that’s already warming with the heat of Dean’s body.

If he didn’t have his grace, he might think Dean was asleep, he’s so still and quiet. Instead, Castiel listens to the neurons firing in Dean’s brain, the slightly quickened pulse of his alcohol-thickened blood. He wonders what Dean is thinking, but he can no longer stomach reaching in to find out without permission.

“Hey.” Dean speaks in a secretive rumble. “The way we used to. Y’know.”

Castiel knows. He bites his lip against an unbidden smile and pulls himself in, fitting himself to the clean, sweeping curve of Dean’s spine. He presses his nose to the back of Dean’s neck and smells not dirt and blood but shampoo and rosemary. Dean has been cooking.

He no longer needs sleep, but it’s a welcome human indulgence. He drifts into a doze against the backdrop of Dean’s languorous inhales and exhales.

 

With a few hours’ time, Dean sobers, and they awaken almost simultaneously. Outside, Castiel knows, the sky is pre-dawn gray, but down in the bunker the light is always the same.

His arm is slung across Dean’s hip, his fingers curled against the soft swell of Dean’s stomach. Dean’s T-shirt is pushed up and Castiel’s thumb brushes bare skin and it is with only his most heroic effort of will that he drags his attention from that, the tiny fine hairs on Dean’s body.

“Gotta piss,” Dean grunts.

Castiel lets him go, which may have been an error, because in the silence while he awaits Dean’s return, he’s much too aware of his erection. He can barely shift in place without noticing it, without the fabric of his boxers shifting as well and dragging whispers of sensation with it.

When this happened in Purgatory, he ignored it. There was always a distraction; Benny calling them to attention, an attack, Dean grumbling that he needed to go sharpen his blade.

Now there’s only Dean. Dean sliding back into the bed, bright-eyed and rumpled. His cold feet brush Castiel’s shins and Castiel yelps, which makes Dean laugh.

“Hey, so.” Dean sets his hand on Castiel’s kneecap with such obvious intent that it makes Castiel’s breath catch in his throat. He realizes that Dean’s breath is minty. Dean brushed his teeth, which means—

“Yes,” Castiel says. Dean hasn’t even asked, but: “Yes.”

And like that, Dean is everywhere—everything. His teeth at Castiel’s lower lip and his thigh up over Castiel’s hip and his still-wet hands flat against Castiel’s chest. His heart hammers; Castiel can feel it in his own heartbeat and in his grace, Dean’s nervous system going wild with this moment, and the subdued irritation of the Mark of Cain trying to reassert its dominion over Dean’s soul.

“With me,” Castiel says, determined to reel him back in.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his tongue curling into Castiel’s open mouth and his cock starting to harden where it’s tucked into the hollow between Castiel’s thigh and his own aching erection. “Yeah, yeah, fuck. Cas—”

“ _Dean_.” That—it’s Castiel’s favorite word. He kisses Dean’s chin, the soft skin under his jaw. “I wanted this every time.” He wanted it despite the muck and grime, despite the constant slog of fighting and killing, despite the looming specter of his upcoming farewell to Dean.

“You got no _idea_ ,” Dean gasps. They’re moving jerkily, rubbing up against each other without rhythm or finesse. “No—goddamn—idea.”

Castiel thinks he does, but he digs his fingers into the meat of Dean’s thighs and sucks at the sweat-salty skin of Dean’s neck rather than arguing. The awareness of Dean’s dual pain and pleasure twists deliciously in Castiel’s grace and he does it again, scrapes his teeth against Dean’s pulse.

“Fuck,” Dean says again, entirely heartfelt. He clutches at Castiel’s shoulders. “You don’t—don’t mess around, huh?”

Castiel chuckles, working a hand under the waistband of Dean’s underwear. “I just wanted you to be sure. I’m not going to want to stop now that we’re starting.”

His breath punching fast and shallow out of his lungs, Dean squirms, arches back into the splay of Castiel’s fingers. “No, dude, let’s—let’s not—”

Dean’s soul is nearly vibrating, bright, alight with excitement and anticipation and the expansiveness of Dean’s love. “I have you,” Castiel tells him, breathing the words into Dean’s ear, and Dean chokes back a whining sound and orgasms against Castiel’s thigh, the wash of his uncomplicated pleasure so blinding that Castiel’s own erection nearly hurts with how good it feels just to bear witness.

“Cas,” Dean’s saying, fumbling and dragging his open mouth against Castiel’s collarbones. “Cas, lemme…”

 _Oh_ , Castiel thinks. He’s dazed, letting Dean pop the buttons of his shirt and mouth at the aching swell of his cock through his boxers. This is quick, messy and overeager, but still more than they would have had time for in Purgatory. It would have been over by now. Castiel would have been expanding his senses to watch for leviathan.

All he can sense in here is Dean’s breath hot against bare skin and then the slick, slick cradle of Dean’s mouth swallowing him down.

Dean may be very good at this. Castiel can barely tell, lost in the light of Dean’s whole body and soul straining toward him, the wet noises as he pulls off and sinks back down, Dean’s hands stroking his hips and thighs and sides. The Mark is nearly silent.

When he comes, his balls tight and his nervous system overwhelmed, Dean drinks it all down with his eyelashes fluttering and his fingers digging into the flesh of Castiel’s inner thighs.

“Hi,” Castiel says as Dean pulls himself back up the length of Castiel’s body. He touches the tip of Dean’s nose with his fingertips, awed. “I wanted, but I didn’t know.”

Dean ducks his head, but Castiel knows he’s smiling. “Yeah.” He pulls a face as he moves, and Castiel remembers the mess in Dean’s own boxers. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Let’s shower,” Castiel suggests with a surge of boldness. “We could both use it.”

Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He knocks his forehead against Castiel’s temple. “Yeah,” he says, “we’re dirty.”


End file.
